APEX RISING

Chapter 5 – Chains and Silence

Darkness.

Not the kind that creeps in slowly, but the kind that clamps over you like a burial cloth.

Damian stirred, his head pounding with a thick, pulsing ache. His mouth was dry, his skin damp with cold sweat. It took him a moment to realize his eyes were open—only to discover he couldn't see. A coarse fabric was tied tightly around his head.

Blindfolded.

Panic tickled the edge of his chest, but he forced his breath to steady. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow. Controlled. Just like he’d taught himself over the years.

He tried to move his hands.

Clink.

A heavy, metallic sound answered him—cold iron biting into his wrists.

Chains.

The weight of them pulled his arms down, locking them somewhere behind him. The metal dug into his skin, raw and unrelenting, and every movement made the shackles clatter against what felt like concrete beneath him.

“Where… am I?” he whispered, but his voice was hoarse, brittle, and the room swallowed it whole.

No reply.

Only silence.

Not the kind of silence that comes with peace, but the dense, suffocating kind—the kind that watches.

The air was still and musty, filled with the scent of rusted metal, damp stone, and something sharper beneath—like old blood. The floor was cold beneath his legs, and every breath he took sent cold air slithering down his throat.

His heart thudded slowly at first… then faster. Louder. Like it knew something he didn’t.

Then—a faint click.

A door?

A footstep followed. Then another. Deliberate. Unhurried.

Someone was here.

…

Damian blinked hard, eyes still adjusting to the harsh fluorescent light. Every breath felt like fire in his throat, every muscle tense beneath the weight of cold steel.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?” he repeated, voice dry and cracking.

Silence.

Then—footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Echoing off the concrete walls like the ticking of a clock counting down. The steps moved behind him, then stopped. Damian's jaw clenched.

He didn’t turn. He couldn’t.

Then, without warning—the blindfold was yanked off.

Light slammed into his retinas. He winced, shutting his eyes instinctively as a wave of nausea washed over him. When he finally forced them open, blurry shapes swam into view.

He was inside a sterile, windowless room. The air was cold. The walls, a dull gray. The only illumination came from a flickering bulb above.

His arms were shackled in front of him—thick, iron chains attached to a reinforced metal table bolted to the floor. Every movement made them clink, echoing like hollow screams.

Across the table sat a woman.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t move.

Her sharp eyes were locked on his, lips drawn in a hard, flat line. There was no sympathy in her stare—only scrutiny, maybe even irritation. Her black suit looked like it hadn't wrinkled in a decade. She exuded control.

The silence between them stretched unbearably thin.

Damian swallowed hard. His heart thudded in his ears. The memories from the forest, the creature, the golden eyes—all crashed back into his mind in a blur of confusion and dread.

Still, the woman remained silent. Still. Watching.

And Damian realized—

she wasn’t trying to intimidate him.

She was studying him.

Like a puzzle she couldn’t yet solve.

…

Damian’s eyes darted around the room, scanning the walls, ceiling, and floor.

It was cold, colorless, sterile.

A two-way mirror. A single door. A camera in the corner.

It hit him—an interrogation room.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded, turning back to the woman. “Where the hell am I?”

She didn’t flinch. But the look she gave him… it dripped with disgust. As if his very existence offended her.

She stood.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just slow, deliberate, controlled.

Her heels clicked softly against the concrete floor as she walked around the table, the chain on Damian’s wrists rattling as he instinctively pulled back.

She stopped right beside him, staring down at him like a mother scolding a rebellious child—but her eyes held no compassion. Only contempt.

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked coldly.

Damian scoffed. “Lady, I have no clue who the hell you are, or what game this is, but—”

Smack.

Her hand slammed down on the metal table, the sharp crack making him flinch despite himself. Her face didn’t move, but her eyes were burning now.

“You’re going to pretend,” she said through clenched teeth, “that you haven’t been in contact with Malcolm?”

Damian’s confusion turned to disbelief. He looked at her like she’d just grown another head.

“Is this a joke?” he said, voice raised. “I don’t know who Malcolm is, okay? I’ve never even heard that name in my life.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then her jaw tightened. The muscle in her cheek twitched. Her lips parted slightly, as if she was about to scream—but instead she inhaled sharply and turned away.

He wasn't lying. That made her angrier.

She walked back toward her chair but didn’t sit. Her back was to him now, one hand gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening.

And Damian just stared, still chained, still in pain, still unsure if this was reality or another nightmare—and wondering:

Who the hell was Malcolm?

And why did everyone seem to think he knew him?

…

Before Damian could gather his breath, she moved.

Swift as a whip. Precise as a scalpel.

In one fluid motion, she spun on her heel, stormed toward him, and grabbed the back of his head with a force that made his spine jolt.

“Hey—!”

BANG!

His face slammed against the cold, metal table.

Pain exploded. Something cracked. Blood splattered.

He let out a muffled groan, his body trembling, hot red leaking from his nose and lips, dripping down his chin onto the steel surface. His wrists jerked against the chains, but they held tight.

His vision flickered.

And then—gone.

His irises vanished entirely, leaving only the ghastly white of his eyes visible. A strange stillness fell over him. His breathing slowed. His body slumped, almost limp—yet not unconscious.

She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart. Blood dripped from Damian’s nose, his torn lips trembling, and his iris vanished—leaving only the eerie white of his eyes visible.

With her free hand, she reached behind her back and slowly pulled out a worn, creased photograph.

She slammed it down on the table in front of him.

Damian froze.

His gaze locked onto the image with a chilling intensity that made the air thicken.

The photo showed a man—tall, drenched in shadow and rain—but the most unmistakable feature were…his eyes… golden eyes piercing through the dark.

And then Damian’s breath caught.

It’s him!